


Some Day, One Day

by wocket



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: 1980s, 1990s, Angst, Awkwardness, Growing Up, Kissing, Letters, M/M, Platonic Cuddling, Underage Drinking, Unrequited Crush
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-18
Updated: 2020-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:14:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24785221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wocket/pseuds/wocket
Summary: Steve is the one constant in Tim McVeigh's life.
Relationships: Tim McVeigh/Steve Hodge
Kudos: 1





	Some Day, One Day

**July 13, 1985**

On the morning of the Live Aid concert, Tim McVeigh and his best friend Steve Hodge wake up before the sun comes up and camp out in front of the television set. 

The show starts at seven in the morning local time, airing all across the world simultaneously. The opening acts are mediocre, and Tim suffers through Spandau Ballet without a single complaint. Sting and Phil Collins kick it up a notch and a few more bands play decent sets, until Dire Straits lead into what they’ve been waiting for: Queen.

Tim and Steve watch with captive eyes as Freddie Mercury runs onto the stage in his white muscle tank and acid-wash jeans, working the crowd, then takes a seat at the piano to go straight into “Bohemian Rhapsody”. It’s good but not as good as the next number, which has Freddie commanding the crowd effortlessly. Tim really goes wild for “Hammer to Fall”.

“He’s fearless,” Tim comments of Mercury, eyes glued to MTV.

“I thought you liked his voice,” Steve comments.

“I do. He’s the best,” Tim defends. “Just… look how many people are in that stadium. Everyone is listening to him. He has the attention of every single person.”

By the end of the iconic set, Tim and Steve are stomping and clapping and singing along, to the dismay of Steve’s parents upstairs. Thankfully, their patience for Steve and Tim’s antics is generous, though Steve's mother has always considered Tim a bad influence.

“How can you beat Queen?!” Tim insists. “Wow. We don’t even have to watch the rest of the concert.”

“I do want to see Bowie and Elton John,” Steve points out.

Tim makes a face. “I think Black Sabbath goes on later,” Tim relents, draping himself over the sofa and tucking his socked feet in between Steve’s hip and the cushion.

They stay on the sofa all day taking in music history. Tim hollers the lyrics to “Iron Man” so loud that it actually surprises Steve when he manages to hit the right harmonies in “California Girls” by the Beach Boys. Maybe Tim’s chorus elective is paying off. 

Tim really should go home at some point, but he stays at Steve’s house for all of Live Aid - almost sixteen hours. The boys go through everything in the kitchen, leaving empty packages of microwave pizzas and Pepsi and Sour Patch Kids in their wake.

Finally, at the end of the show, Tim bounces off the sofa and returns to his own house, but it’s not half an hour later that there’s a knock on Steve’s front door. It’s Tim, for the second time today.

“You’re back already?” Steve says, surprised, not expecting Tim to reappear so soon.

“Steve, I gotta get out of here.”

Steve can tell by the look on Tim’s face that he seriously needs to get away. Tim is somewhere in between frustrated and agitated, his desperation palpable.

Steve doesn’t ask any questions. He _does_ make Tim stand guard at the top of the stairs while he lifts a bottle of liquor from his sister’s dresser drawer.

“Are you sure we should —?”

“My sister stole it, anyway,” Steve justifies. “Come on!”

Tromping down the stairs, they run outside and into the woods behind Tim’s house, treading a familiar path. In the summertime, the foliage is thick and green. The boys follow a trail they’ve used a thousand times before, from playing cowboys and Indians as kids to hiding from their sisters and parents.

“You wanna talk about it?” Steve finally asks him once they’re deep into the woods.

“Nah,” Tim answers, but he keeps talking anyway as twigs crunch underfoot. “My dad’s been mad as hell lately, that’s all.”

“Did you do anything?” Steve asks curiously.

“No!” Tim’s voice rises, defensive. “I was supposed to help him with the yard today and I forgot,” he adds. “But he’s just so fucking sensitive. He’s been that way all week. It doesn’t matter what I do.”

“Even with your mom gone? Still?”

Most of the other neighborhood kids skirt sensitively around the subject, but Tim and Steve are close, and have been that way since childhood. Steve is familiar with the dynamics of the McVeigh family, familiar with things that Tim tries to hide from the other kids at school that are harder to keep from a curious neighbor. Steve knows how Tim’s dad is, precise, wanting things kept a certain way, and Steve knows how all the kids have to be on their best behavior over at the McVeigh house.

“It’s a little better, I guess.” Tim shrugs. “I’m never going to be like that, Steve. I swear.”

“I know. You’re not,” Steve promises. They keep walking. “Did you tell him you were too busy watching Freddie Mercury?”

Tim’s face reddens. “Shut up,” he says, playfully shoving Steve.

It’s a warm summer night, stars shining bright in the New York sky. The two boys wander through the trees until they reach the open field on the other side of the woods.

Steve decides it’s time to bust out the alcohol. 

“What is it?” Tim asks as Steve inspects the label.

“Aftershock?”

“After you.”

“Hell no,” Steve disagrees. He pours some alcohol into the cap for himself and hands Tim the bottle. “We’re going down together.”

Both boys throw back a shot and immediately retch.

“Ugh,” Tim frowns. “This is foul.”

“It’s gross!”

“I think you’re supposed to mix it with something or drink something else after, maybe,” Tim says, mouth burning.

“Is it supposed to be… spicy?”

“Give me that,” Tim says, snatching the bottle back. “Are you sure this isn’t transmission fluid?”

“Why would my sister be drinking transmission fluid?”

“Why would Vicki be drinking _this_?” Tim gripes. “Might as well drink cough syrup.” 

It’s all they’ve got, though, so they grimace around shot after shot. Both boys are new to this, downing more liquor than they realize, and soon the bottle is half-empty. Legs feeling wobbly, it’s easy to settle down in the grass and look up at the vast sky.

Tim stares up, up, up. “I’ve never just… thought about the trees.”

When he looks over, Steve is watching him with a smile. “You… are… _drunk_.”

Tim’s bright blue eyes are unfocused and glassy, staring at some unknown fixed point ahead.

“Are you okay?” Steve checks.

“I’ve never been drunk before,” he whispers back.

“Me either,” Steve admits. “How do you feel?”

“Good!” Tim is cheerier than he was before, euphoria settling in. “I think… Is everything supposed to be spinning?”

“You mean the ground’s not moving?” Steve grabs a fistful of grass.

Tim snickers.

“You’re the - you’re the - you get better grades,” Tim spits out. “College boy.” In the fall Tim will be a senior at Starpoint, but Steve graduated this year. 

“You could get accepted next year, too.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You could, Tim.”

“I don’t _want_ to.”

They talk and talk as the liquid disappears drop by drop. The drunker they get, the more the inhibitions wane, smiles contagious. Both of them slip into a buzz more powerful than they realize.

The summer air feels unyielding. There’s a kind of magic in it, the kind that always accompanies a balmy summer evening, and Tim’s heart pounds when his eyes lock with Steve’s.

On a drunken whim, Tim closes the narrow distance between them and kisses Steve, unsure but genuine.

“Shit. I’m sorry,” Tim apologizes to his best friend, withdrawing.

Steve doesn’t get angry though - he would never - especially not with Tim. “It felt good,” he blurts out.

So Tim leans in and does it again. It’s sloppy and uncoordinated and somehow undeniably wonderful. The angle is wrong and the pressure is wrong and Tim’s hands are in the wrong places but it’s so _good_ , even though the kiss tastes like cinnamon liquer.

Tim is real careful to keep his hands poised modestly over the hem of Steve’s striped polo shirt while they kiss. 

Steve jerks when Tim’s nose bumps his glasses and Tim pulls away, reaching for the bottle with clammy hands. He downs another shot to quell his nerves. At some point they both drop into the grass on their backs, eyes on the stars.

Steve and Tim keep at it in companionable silence until the bottle is empty and they’re as good as wasted. There’ll be nothing left to sneak back into Vicki’s drawer tonight. 

Tim staggers up a good while later. He lets out a savage yell and hurls the bottle against a tree. It shatters. 

After a moment or two, Tim gets up to make his way to the tree trunk, kneeling to collect the shards of broken glass.

“Tim, what are you doing?!”

“Cleaning up the broken glass,” he answers.

Steve laughs. What a polite, imperfect vandal. 

Steve jumps up and grabs Tim’s hand. He pulls him away from the mess, starts running without looking back. Drunk and jocular, they run all the way through the woods until they reach Tim’s backyard. That’s where Steve finally drops his handhold, and they cross the street kitty-corner to the Hodge’s house.

Steve and Tim thunder up the stairs to Steve’s room as they always do, and Tim feels a thrill of _something_ when Steve locks the door behind them. 

The teenagers stand around Steve’s room nervously. They’ve slept here dozens of times for sleepovers throughout the years, but the air feels like it’s thrumming with something different.

Tim kneels to untie his shoelaces, just to give himself something to do.

“Timmy,” Steve calls.

Tim looks up. Steve is in bed, corner of the covers turned up.

Tim joins Steve in his twin bed, trying to leave him some room. It’s been a while since they’ve done this, the bed barely big enough to hold the two of them. Tim’s a lot taller than he used to be, but they find a way to fit.

Afraid to breathe, Tim leaves his hand flat on the covers in between their bodies, drops it there and holds still and waits.

Steve touches Tim’s hand with the tip of his finger, inching forward cautiously. 

Experimentally, they touch each other - fingers across a wrist, thumbs over knuckles - nothing sexual, only tentative. 

Tim’s never been touched like this. It’s startlingly intimate, but most of all, it just feels nice, his nerves sparking underneath the skin at every touch. The buzz is making everything feel electric.

Saints they are not, but they press their hands together, a holy palmers’ kiss. It’s hard to resist the sensation of touch, and it takes a while but eventually they seem to fit together, gangly limbs, socked feet and all. Tim’s not sure whether to call it a hug or a cuddle so he doesn’t call it anything, just focuses on how warm and safe it feels.

Tim tries the move again, tries another clumsy kiss pressed to Steve’s mouth. There’s too much spit, but their lips shift and it becomes gentle and perfect. It doesn’t go any further than innocent touches and sweet, slow kisses that fade into nothing as the liquor pulls them closer to sleep.

Steve tugs playfully at the strings of Tim’s blue hoodie and eventually, drunkenness gives way to sleep.

*

A banging on the door that rivals the pounding in their heads gets both boys up the next morning.

“Steve? Steve!”

Tim gulps and extricates himself from Steve as quickly as he can.

It’s Steve’s big sister Vicki at the door, standing there with her hands on her hips.

Tim runs a hand through his hair. He’d gotten a perm at the end of his junior year, taking his stick-straight hair to a fluffy nest. He can tell it’s a mess and he prays Vicki doesn’t say anything.

“Why’d you lock the door?” Vicki asks her little brother instantly.

Steve mumbles something about it being an accident.

“Whatever. I called you a couple of times. You really must’ve been sleeping,” she says. “There’s pancakes in the kitchen if you want ‘em.” Vicki looks to Tim. “Morning, Tim.”

All in all, it’s just like every other Saturday morning, although the butterflies in Tim’s stomach are a new addition.

Steve never mentions that night again, though. Too scared to bring it up, Tim spends the next few years assuming Steve was blackout drunk and couldn’t remember a thing. 

*

**May 1988**

At 20, Tim’s still not old enough to buy alcohol, so Steve picks up a 12-pack at Kenyon’s and they go to the park on the canal by the upside-down bridge. They make their way through the tangled greenery at the edge of the park to the ruins of the old locks, climbing up the remnants of a crumbling wall to perch on top.

Tim and Steve have deserted the Aftershock for the more palatable Bud Light. Steve uses a keychain bottle opener to pop the caps off of two bottles, offering one to Tim. He clinks the necks of their bottles in a toast.

“I’m old enough to serve my country but not to buy a damn beer,” Tim complains, picking at the label.

“What the hell are you talking about?” Steve asks, looking up sharply. 

“I’m joining the Army,” Tim says out of nowhere. He’s always been into the survivalist stuff but this seems awful sudden, and Tim’s speaking like things have already been set in motion.

“What?” Steve asks. “ _Why_?”

“All the free ammo you could want.”

“When did you make this decision?”

“Two days ago.”

“What about school? You have a scholarship.” Tim’s been attending the Bryan & Stratton Business College and taking computer programming classes. Steve had been proud when he’d made that choice instead of going to work in some factory.

Tim shrugs and takes a sip of beer. “School’s still expensive. Besides, I dropped out at the end of the last semester.” 

That certainly explains why Tim’s had so much time on his hands lately.

“Are you sure about this? The Army?”

“I already signed the paperwork.”

So it’s done, then.

“I can’t believe you didn’t say anything,” Steve admits, still in shock.

“I’m saying something now.” Tim frowns around the neck of his beer bottle.

“I wish you had told me first.”

“Steve, would you really have tried to change my mind?”

“Maybe,” Steve replies. “Yes.”

Tim looks at him, really stares. Tim tries to read the moment, not exactly sure what makes him close the gap between their bodies. Hand on Steve’s cheek, Tim leans in for a real kiss, the kind of kiss they should have had years ago, now that they’re not totally sloshed.

Tim’s tongue darts out against Steve’s mouth, tentative, flickering past Steve’s pink lips and against his tongue. The soft brush of lips and tongues and teeth sends a chill up Tim’s spine.

It’s when Tim tries to deepen the kiss that Steve’s hand finds his chest and pushes him away slowly. 

Tim’s heart falls. He feels like running, starting to reel backwards. “I misread things — I shouldn’t have —” he babbles.

Steve gets a hold of him and doesn’t let him go. “You’re gay?” Steve questions softly, hoping his voice is free of judgment.

“Bi,” Tim answers, swallowing around the word. He’s never actually described himself that way but it seems to fit the best. “You’re… not?”

Steve shakes his head. “No, I think I’ve known since —”

Tim doesn’t want to hear the rest of the sentence, already knowing what Steve will say. He knows he’s thinking of that night in high school, the night they should have had this conversation. 

“I thought you forgot it happened.”

Looking at the floor, Steve shakes his head. “You’re my best friend. I like you so much, you know that,” Steve tells him, but his words sound like an excuse.

“But…?” Tim interrupts. He realizes now with a sinking heart that Steve remembers all of it, too - he just didn’t want to hurt his feelings. Tim’s not sure what hurts worse, believing Steve merely had no recollection of the event or his best friend pretending it never even happened.

“I don’t want to ruin our friendship,” Steve tries to explain. “I’m sorry. Timmer... we _shouldn’t_.”

The familiarity of the nickname in that moment burns. Tim knows there’s something deeper here; he can _feel_ it. “Don’t call me that,” Tim replies, bristling. “I’m not Timmer anymore.”

Tim’s up and moving, striding away before Steve can say anything.

“Timmy!” Steve calls out of habit. “Tim. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to our friendship,” Steve manages to get out. He follows Tim, shorter legs working to keep up. “Will you stay in touch? Please?”

Tim takes a deep breath. He seems to cool off, at least for now. He’s not _mad_ , just… confused. “Yes. Of course.” It would take a lot more than this to pull the two of them apart.

Steve looks grateful. “We’ll make the best of the time you have left before you go. When do you leave for boot camp? The end of summer?”

Tim is usually good about hiding his emotions when he wants to, but Steve catches the flash of dejection that crosses Tim’s face before he meets his eyes.

“Tomorrow.”

“Right,” Steve sighs. What else is there left to say? “You’ll make a good soldier, Tim.”

In the blink of an eye, Tim is in boot camp at Fort Benning and the night becomes just another memory.

*

**1990**

Tim keeps his word and stays in touch during his time in the Army. One day a letter comes in the mail and they just never stop coming.

In the fall, Tim receives orders that his unit is being deployed to Saudi Arabia as part of Operation Desert Shield.

Halloween with Tim has always conjured up memories of haunted houses and trick-or-treating and candy. The holiday bears hints of something scarier now, something more real than childhood imagination, a true trick from the U.S. government.

Tim gets a few days of pre-deployment leave before he flies to the Persian Gulf. He spends most of his leave getting his affairs in order, taking care of his will, saying goodbye to the Drzyzgas and the Hodges and Bill and Jenny.

Tim saves Steve - the one constant in his life - for last.

They hang out with Steve’s family for a while and make polite small talk, but Tim is secretly relieved when they finally retreat to Steve’s bedroom. 

“Are you scared?”

“I don’t want to answer that,” Tim says quietly.

Steve hugs Tim when he finally lets him, standing up on his tiptoes so he can get his arms around the taller man. His head only reaches Tim’s chest - it’s easy to turn his cheek and press it there a moment longer than he should, unsure if the moment is for himself or for Tim.

When they separate, the two young men sit side by side on the edge of the bed.

“I’m going to come home in a body bag,” Tim muses.

“You don’t know that.”

“I do.”

“Well, I don’t believe it!” It’s the closest Steve has ever gotten to raising his voice with Tim, but he can’t let himself believe his friend’s doom and gloom. 

Tim starts to draw in on himself, drawing his knees up to his chest.

“Are you okay?” Steve asks, sensitive to Tim’s movements. He’s known Tim for so long he knows when something is up.

“My stomach hurts,” Tim complains quietly. His eyes look tired.

Steve tries to make himself larger, which is hard to do up against Tim’s lanky size. His arm finds its way around Tim, palm settling on his back.

“You’re upset; that won’t help,” Steve lectures, though he means it kindly.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Tim replies, irritated. “Anyway… I’d just gotten my orders for the Special Forces tryout,” Tim explains, pushing his face into a pillow. “I was supposed to start a week from today.”

“That’s not fair,” Steve agrees, sad for his friend. Steve knows how much he wants it. “You can still do it.” 

Tim shrugs.

“Will you write?” Steve asks selfishly, not sure why Tim would stop now. Tim is funny and clever and descriptive and Steve won’t be able to stand not hearing from the smart-ass while he’s in the desert.

“Until I get blown away.”

“Don’t say that,” Steve insists, unable to bear the thought. 

Tim’s face softens. He hadn’t meant to upset Steve. It just didn’t seem like this had any other way out.

“I’ll be here when you get home,” Steve says finally.

It’s not even that late, but there’s nothing else to do, so they toe off their shoes and sleep in Steve’s bed that night, two grown men pressed together and barely managing to fit in the still too-small twin bed. 

The night is solemn and silent, breaths measured and heavy between them. Tim lets himself take whatever comfort Steve is willing to offer.

Tim is almost asleep when Steve kisses Tim’s forehead. It’s the last thing Tim remembers, and sometimes he thinks it was his imagination.

*

Tim always sends Steve letters, but they pick up in frequency when he’s abroad in the Persian Gulf. Steve waits by the mailbox, trying desperately not to feel like some broad waiting for a letter from her soldier on the front.

Steve reads the letters faithfully until Tim writes Steve that he’s coming home for good at Christmas. Steve’s never been happier to read the news in his life. He’s never let go of that hope, the _faith_ that Tim would come back in one piece.

The Army hangs onto Tim for just a while longer, and it’s more like New Year’s by the time he receives his honorable discharge. What’s a few more days? By December 31, 1991, Tim is done - free - and a week later he’s back in Lockport. Good old Timmy - or is he? Steve can see he’s changed. Anything will set him off. Steve’s not sure how to handle it - he knows that Tim has already told him everything he wants him to know. So he just tries to be there for him.

Tim fools around in the Buffalo area for a few months, but he seems unfulfilled and distant. There are bigger problems at war in Tim’s mind now.

Steve tries to ply him with all the usual good things in life, but none of it works. Tim just grows more distant.

Tim leaves that summer without telling a soul where he’s gone, and it’s not until he takes a second trip in November that Steve finds out he’s been “visiting an Army buddy” up in Michigan. That’s all Tim will reveal.

By January, Tim quits his job at Burns Security, sells everything he owns except what will fit in his gray Spectrum, and hits the road. Tim doesn’t tell anyone anything - not even Steve. He just disappears.

Maddeningly, months go by with no word from Tim. Steve hears nothing from the man who has always been his best friend and confidante. Tim can take care of himself, but they’d always stayed in touch. Now Steve has no idea where in the world Tim is.

In autumn, a letter finally comes, the familiar spindly handwriting spelling out T. McVeigh on the return address. The letter is postmarked somewhere in Nevada. 

Steve’s never picked up a pencil so fast in his life. He writes back right away, asking for details. Steve feels dumb pressing Tim for information, but he implores Tim to tell him where he is and what he’s doing. 

_”Tim —_

_WHAT ARE YOU DOING? I don’t know where to find you most of the time. You don’t have to keep your life so mysterious. You don’t have to tell me where you’ve been or where you’re going but please let me know you’re okay. _

_Wander my way once in a while, stranger._

_Yours,_

_Steve”_

Where in the world is Tim McVeigh? His answer: “Anywhere. Everywhere.” He means it — Florida, Arizona, Michigan, Kansas, everything in between… 

Tim starts to be more communicative after that, at least, but the letters begin to change - they’re angrier, intending to stir things up. Steve’s not that kind of guy. Tim gets mad when he holds out, and Steve’s able to tell. His letters are full of stress and disillusionment now. The letters become lectures. Steve keeps up with the rants and diatribes, but resists Tim’s attempts to cajole him into extremist thinking. He’s just not this interested in this stuff. Not in the way Tim is into it. What Steve would give for simpler days, a walk in the woods or a swim in the pool. Tim is always going on about the government or the threats posed to the American people. What happened to _Star Trek_ and the Buffalo Bills? What happened to Timmy?

Tim’s letters try to incite action, but Steve just worries that Tim will get himself in trouble and might get himself hurt somehow. The tone of the letters escalates, and Steve deals with the vitriol Tim spews at him as he offers line-by-line interpretations of the Constitution, ones Steve dare not disagree with. Where Steve views meager differences, Tim sees only an insurmountable valley. Steve doesn’t understand the future Tim paints: a dystopia with increased state surveillance, unconstitutional gun regulations, limited freedoms for the press and the common man, and an increasingly violent and problematic government.

_“Spare me your fucking pity, Steve! You owe me more than that._

_The text is ambiguous? The text is only ambiguous if you don’t know what it’s saying. Allow me to explain. The Constitution guarantees us certain unalienable rights that are as essential today as they were in 1776, the most important being self-defense. Self-defense is the primary law of nature.”_

In July, right after Independence Day, Steve receives a packet in the mail, a 23-page letter from Tim. Steve lets it sit, stares at the envelope for way too long before he finally opens it. 

The gist of it? _Goodbye._

*

**July 14, 1994**

_”I have sworn to uphold and defend the Constitution against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and I will because not only did I swear to, but I believe in what it stands for in every bit of my heart, soul and being… I know in my heart that I am right in my struggle, Steve. I have come to peace with myself, my God, and my cause. And I feel that I do not have to justify myself to anyone, to defend my position. Never have I felt this way before when I found the real truth. I know it inside. The struggle now is not one of insecurity — am I insane — but one of how people — how can people not see what I do as the obvious truth?_

_Blood will flow in the streets, Steve, Good vs Evil. Free men vs. Socialist Wannabe Slaves. Pray it is not your blood, my friend.”_

*

Steve finishes the letter, and as he does so often, starts re-reading it over from the very beginning. When he finishes, Steve puts the contents of the diatribe back in the envelope and places it in a drawer with Tim’s other letters, sixty-six in all. There’s no point in answering this one. Tim is severing ties and it’s clear he’s made up his mind.

Sixty-six letters, sixteen years, and it’s going to end like this.

Tim and Steve might never see eye to eye — heck, they might not ever see each other again. It’s one more thing Steve can’t be for Tim, one more letdown, one more rejection. Steve values Tim’s friendship so much, but ultimately, Tim is a stubborn man. Tim will see things his way or he’ll refuse to see them at all.

*

**November 20, 1994**

Steve’s not sure that Tim wants to see his face, but when he learns about the estate sale the week before Thanksgiving, he can’t stop himself from driving over to Tim’s grandfather’s house.

Steve times it so he shows up right at the end of the day. He’s not here to buy anything, he’s just here for Tim. A slow November rain drips as he pulls into the familiar driveway of the yellow two-story house on Bear Ridge Road.

Steve spies his old friend Tim immediately, his tall, thin figure still clad in his Army fatigues. He’s carrying the remainders from the sale back inside the house.

Steve walks up to the porch but doesn’t say anything.

Tim doesn’t look surprised to see him, nor does he greet him; he just hefts another box into his arms to carry into the house.

Steve grabs a box and follows him in, and they repeat the job until the porch is clean.

Boxes out of the way, they stand face to face underneath the old green-and-white awning on Grandpa McVeigh’s empty porch.

“I’m sorry about your grandfather,” Steve finally breaks the silence, offering his condolences.

“Me too.”

“I went to the service,” Steve adds, not knowing what else to say. Tim and his grandfather had been close - it seemed like the right thing to do.

Tim nods. “Thank you.” Stuck out west, he couldn’t make it to the funeral, lying about his whereabouts to his father. “So you’ve seen it — the gravesite?”

“Have you?”

Tim shakes his head no.

“Um… Do you… do you maybe want to go?” Steve asks. The cemetery’s not that far, maybe five miles down the road.

“Yeah,” Tim confirms. 

To Steve’s surprise, Tim follows him to his car, climbing into the passenger seat. After that last letter, Steve’s not sure Tim would want anything to do with him. Despite Tim’s authoritative declaration of separation, he seems content to ride with Steve, staring out the window as they drive. Tim used to push 70 on these roads, but Steve obeys the posted speed limit the whole way. He drives alongside the Erie Canal, past the farms and roadside asters and up the curvy road that leads to the old cemetery. Steve parks in the grass and they walk to the top of the hill, leaves crunching underneath their boots.

As they walk up the hill together, Tim is suddenly grateful that he wasn’t here for his grandfather McVeigh’s funeral, surrounded by all of those people. This is more peaceful.

Steve gives him space, watching as Tim walks up to the gravestone and stands ramrod straight. Steve watches Tim’s tall figure shiver in the autumn chill; it’s slight, almost imperceptible but still there. He doesn’t have any gloves on; Steve is instantly reminded of the little boy eager to run out and play in the snow without them. Old habits die hard.

Steve wonders what he’s contemplating but the world inside that mind is not for him to know. 

Steve waits for as long as he needs to. He finally steps up to Tim’s side. “He was a good man.”

“Steve. Thank you,” Tim repeats, and maybe Steve’s reading too much into his response but he doesn’t think Tim means simply thank you for the comment.

Here they are in the dead of winter, surrounded by death, and something else feels like it’s dying too.

Tim finally turns to face his old friend, sticking out his bare hand for a stoic handshake. 

Steve pulls off his mitten so he can feel Tim’s hot skin when he grips his hand, his flesh warm despite the cold winter air. 

“I hope to see you in the next life,” Tim says cryptically. 

Steve isn’t quite sure what he means with that formal and prophetic statement, but he’s burdened with a sinking feeling that this will be the last time he ever sees Tim McVeigh.


End file.
